


Captain O' My Captain

by Ms_Tinker



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Randomness, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:42:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Tinker/pseuds/Ms_Tinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one shots that are going to predominantly follow Steggy, but may also incorporate character studies of how Peggy and/or Steve would have interacted with other characters along the MCU timeline. They are not connected and this is really just a general spot for me to dump my Steggy stuff whenever I get around to making more.   </p><p>More tags will be added accordingly. </p><p>Enjoy :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anger Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy has a hard time keeping her cool when it comes to the shortcomings of 21st Century technology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A random little one shot that popped into my head about Peggy's anger management skills (or lack there of).

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Peggy glares at the screen, washing her in a cold blue glow, seeming to spite her in its frozen state. She swivels the mouse around on the desk, willing the little white arrow to move; willing the computer to show any sign of life. It sets her teeth on edge, all of this technology that people use in the 21st Century. How is anyone supposed to get anything done when absolutely nothing can be relied on? Yes, she’d take a good, solid, sturdy filing cabinet over this absolute nonsense any day.

Peggy taps the mouse into the desk top, hoping that it might shake something lose, or back in, or just fix whatever in hell is wrong with the stupid thing.

“Honestly, I just want to print the damned form!” Nothing changes. The screen continues to flicker that infuriating blue light at her, taunting her. “You have to been kidding me.” Her teeth slide together as she struggles to maintain her frustration.

 

_“Just reset it. It’s not recommended, but if it comes down to it, you can always just press this little blue button here, and the whole thing will shut down. It’s called a ‘hard reset’,” Dr. Banner instructs Peggy, cool and even tempered as ever._

_“How on Earth do you manage to control ‘_ him _’ with all of this frustrating nonsense?” Peggy sighs, finally relinquishing her useless computer to Banner, who is opening up windows and typing things that she’s certain are a code of some form, but she’s not even going to try to guess what it means or does._

_“It helps that I’m not from World War II,” he chuckles, pushing his glasses up his nose a bit. This gets an eye brow from Peggy._

_“I’d watch that cheek of yours, Dr. Banner.”_

_“Ah, my mouth is generally the least of my character flaws that need to stay in check.”_

 

Peggy presses the blue button. Nothing happens. It continues to glow brightly at her. She presses it again. Nothing happens. Presses again. Same result.

“Bloody Nora!” Peggy’s hands begin to clench and release as she fights to maintain control. She’s doing it just exactly as Dr. Banner had shown her. Just press the glowing blue button and…

She makes another three attempts (though if she’s honest, her patience was lost around attempt number two) before something inside completely snaps.

“Arrggghhh!” Her fist comes crashing down onto the computer tower, denting the housing and forcing the metal apart at the corners. Still, the screen keeps glowing and the fans inside the monstrosity continue to whirr quietly.

It’s completely insufferable.

Before she is even aware of what she’s doing, Peggy is punching the life out of the computer. She is perfectly aware, after the fact that her first hit changed absolutely nothing, that pulverizing the computer will do her absolutely no favors, but she cannot help the unbridled satisfaction that is rushing through her body.

The stupid thing refused to comply, so it was clearly going to have to be handled and, God, she can barely contain how wonderful this release feels.

“Steady.”

A hand grabs hold of her tight fist from behind, halting her mid-punch. Immediately, it’s as if she can breathe again, and indeed, she inhales sharp and deep, unaware that she had even been holding her breath. “What in hell are you doing?”

She turns to face Steve, yanking her hand free from his grasp. She glares up at him, the residuals of her adrenaline still keeping her muscles taught. “How can you handle using all this junk? It’s absolute garbage. I was simply trying to print out a form and the stupid thing completely seized up. Not a damned thing worked and—“

“Did you try Bruce’s fixes?” Steve asks, trying not to grin at how completely adorable she looks, her curls falling haphazardly across her face, her cheeks flushed, and fury still burning brightly in her eyes.

“Of course I did! I pressed the power button like he suggested, doing that “hard start” or whatever the hell it was, and it simply refused to work,” Peggy huffs up at Steve. “And you know how much I loathe things that refuse to comply.”

She finishes with a pout, crossing her arms across her chest in protest. She realizes that she must sound (and look) like an absolute child, but she’s much to stubborn for her own good. Margaret Elizabeth Carter will never concede defeat. Or overreaction. She maintains her old standby—if it cannot be reasoned with, hit it into submission.

Steve pushes Peggy’s hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He can no longer repress his smile.

“What?” she snaps, a bit more harshly than she had intended.

“Nothing,” Steve looks away, trying to hide the humor in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” Peggy warns. Her tone is defensive, but they both know perfectly well that she has no real venom in it. She can feel her body relaxing as the humor of her current situation begins to take over.

“I’d never dream of it, Agent Carter,” and to an untrained eye, most would think he was serious as he straightens back up to look her squarely in the eye. But Peggy catches the warm glint in his eye that indicates that Steve finds this anything but serious.

“Good,” she nods curtly at Steve before turning to examine the mess she has made of the computer. “Now, help me come up with a story to tell Pepper. This is the third one I’ve killed since I’ve been here and I don’t think she’s going to appreciate this one either.”

Peggy feels the weight of Steve’s chin as he leans down to rest his head on her shoulder, looking down on the mangled scrap metal that once could have been called a computer. She feels him laugh deep within his chest.

“You’re on your own kid,” he turns to plant a light kiss at the soft spot behind her jaw before he’s out of the room like a shot.

“Oh bloody hell!” Peggy whips around, attempting to catch Steve before he leaves, but he slips through her fingers. “You little shit!”

“Language, sweetheart!” Steve laughs as he promptly leaves the scene of the crime before Pepper even realizes he was there.


	2. The Death of Captain America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one shot related to Fallen Son/ CA:CW.

The pain is blinding. He’s been shot before, back during the War, of course, but never from a high powered sniper rifle. This is something entirely different. He has no way of knowing exactly where he’s been hit, but he is fairly certain it has been straight through his heart. Maybe ricocheted off some bone and tearing some holes in his lungs. All he knows is that every moment his heart tries to beat, it sends white hot pain rushing through his body. And every attempt to breathe is met with a horrific tightness and a stomach churning, gurgling sound.

He’s heard that sound before. Never from his own lips, but certainly from those men who had been casualties of the War. Men who had been shot, dying, struggling to form words, but all that emanated from their bodies was the warm gush of blood, bright red against the green and grey of the European winter. The metallic scent of their blood sharp against his nose. It had made his stomach churn then too.

But he had been braver then. Less tired. More naïve.

“Steve!”

He’s fairly certain that it’s Sharon’s voice, but he sees a flash of metal above him. Bucky. His mind comprehends that he is being tilted upward as Bucky takes him in his arms, but he realizes with a grim certainty that he cannot actually feel Bucky’s arms around him.

He is cold. So cold. Colder than he’s ever been in his life. And this is a man who had spent seventy years of his life encased in ice. Still, Schmitt’s plane was nothing compared to the iciness that is quickly overtaking him. Each breathe becoming harder and harder to take as blood oozes from his chest, soaking into his uniform.

“Steve, ya gotta hold on, kid,” Bucky says thickly. He figures Bucky is crying, but his vison is so blurry that it’s impossible to confirm. “We’ll fix you up.”

He wants to tell Bucky that it’s fine. He wants to go. Really. He wants to explain how tired he is. How all he wants to do is go back to sleep. If he could sleep off another seventy years, or an eternity, then maybe none of this would matter anymore. Or maybe he’d be able to see his ma and dad again? How long had it been? Close to eighty years?

And Peg. Jesus, to see her...

Steve. Steve. Steve. His name shifts into nothing more than a high pitched sound, echoing around in his skull. He is no longer Captain America. He isn’t even Steve Rogers. He is simply ceasing to exist all together.

It is time.

XXXXXXXXX

He feels her before anything else. He feels her body against his, her hands across his skin, her presence around him. And it brings him such a sense of calm, of release, that he can’t remember having since he was pulled from the ice.

And it is so comforting that for several long moments, he just lays there, warm and content and loved. He listens to the sound of her breathing, feels the warm air from her lungs against his skin; he hears the steady, strong thrum of her heartbeat and he thinks that it is the most glorious sound he’s ever heard in his life—her  heartbeat.

But it is her lips against his neck that finally urge him to open his eyes, the light blinding him for a moment. Turning his head slightly, he catching his first glimpse of her. She is so beautiful that, for a second, he forgets to breathe.

“I was wondering when you’d be waking up, Captain,” she teases him, her smile lazy as she leans back in to kiss his shoulder.

This cannot be real. He slides his hand gently under her chin, pulling her face up to meet his.

“How is this possible?” he whispers, his thumb grazing lightly against her cheek, willing the touch of his thumb to ensure that she remains right where she is.

“We’re naked in a bed together, and you’re questioning it?” she cocks an eye brow at him. He mentally kicks himself. “You haven’t gotten any better at talking to women, I see.”

He blushes slightly and looks away, his eyes catching her perfect lips. His gaze flickers back up for a moment, her expression having softened, before she pushes forward and lands her mouth against his. There is a moment, where he’s not exactly sure what to do, his mind having gone completely blank. But the taste of her brings everything back in a flood and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s pulled her on top of him, his fingers tangling in her dark curls, their mouths battling for dominance and neither one willing to give an inch.

He hears her gasp as his hips involuntarily buck against her. One hand moves to cradle her head as he trails kisses down her neck, while the other slowly glides across her, memorizing every inch of skin and every curve he can reach.

“I buried you,” and his voice is so small against her skin, that he’s not even sure she heard him say it at first. But she sighs, littering his face with feather-light kisses, her nails pulling faintly across his skin.

“I buried you, too,” she finally breathes, pulling away, looking at him, examining him, her gaze shadowed with a sadness.

“Then, is this Heaven?” His hands settle on her hips as she sits up, straddling him and baring herself to him. It takes the wind out of him for a moment, how breathtaking she looks. This must be Heaven. He’s finally died and this is what the other side looks like.

“Not quite, I’m afraid. Somewhere in between,” she runs her hands across his chest, seeming to soak in every hard peak and soft curve of muscle.

“Between what?” He sits up, shifting her so that she is sitting in his lap, her legs wrapped around him. It does not escape him how satisfying it feels to be locked between her thighs.

“Between life and death, my darling.” She cards a hand through his hair, pulling him closer.

“But I died.”

“Not yet. It’s not your time.” There is a pause, as they let that settle between them. She captures his face in her hands, pulling his gaze to meet hers. “One day you will come back to me here, but for now, you must go back.”

In that instant, he feels all of his ninety-six years.

“I’m so tired, Peg. I’m just so damned tired.”

“I know, darling,” she sighs, pulling him against her. He tucks his head into her neck, breathing her in. In his entire life, he’s never forgotten exactly what she smelled like—a memory of floral perfume, a touch of musk from her skin, and crisp hint of soap. It’s the only thing he’s ever found both completely relaxing and completely intoxicating at the same time. “But the world still needs you.”

Yes, the world. Well, fuck the world.

His entire life had been spent saving the world. And apparently he wasn’t even able to escape that responsibility in death. Why wasn’t he ever allowed to be selfish? Well, he could be selfish with one thing—

He presses his lips against her shoulder, pulling, marring her perfect skin. He tilts her back, dipping his head lower to suck lightly at her breasts. One hand supports her back while the other slides easily between them, moving just the way he remembers she likes. He is instantly rewarded by her sharp gasp and her nails digging into his shoulders so deeply that he almost flinches at the pain. But he continues on, working her up until she’s groaning, whining, clawing at his skin as he pushes her closer and closer to the edge.  

He feels her body coiling, readying for the release, and just like that, he stops. Her eyes snap open, burning brightly with lust and frustration, questioning.

“Tell me you need me,” he demands, moving his fingers against her and eliciting another low groan, her hips rolling against him in such a way that he’s amazed that he is still holding it together.

Her hands grasp at the sides of his face harshly, holding him steady as her focus directs entirely to him.

“I need you, Steve.” He growls, fighting the urge to just come right there. He inhales sharply as he feels her slowly move herself onto him. “I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

She moves, rolling herself against him, his hand still pressed against her.

“I need you,” she continues, as he remembers to move his hand again. But every move is a struggle to maintain control. “And I love you.”

“I love you so much, Peg,” he croaks against her skin as he continues to try to pull her closer, push himself deeper.

“I need you to come back to me,” she gasps, speeding up the pace, knowing they’re both teetering on the edge.

“I will.” He can’t breathe. Every cell in his body is focused on her, feeling her, tasting her, memorizing her. His muscles tense, desperate for every inch of her.

“Promise me you won’t be late.” It is a demand, not a request, as she clenches around him.

“I promise,” he cries, releasing everything he is into her.

Every muscle in his body is twitching. Tension and release. Tension and release. He still cannot breath and everything is blurring together; her scent, her voice, her body, all beginning to flow together.

“I love you.”

It echoes through his body, reverberating through his bones.

The pain. The burning pain. Every muscle in his body is tight, on fire. He cannot breathe.

XXXXXXXX

“Steve!”

He bolts upright, spitting and coughing. His chest feels like it’s on fire, his brain spinning from the lack of oxygen.

“She’s gone,” he says harshly, still trying to catch his breath. “She’s gone.”

It’s like his brain is stuck on repeat. It’s the only sentence he can manage to form.

Bucky steps into his line of sight.

“She’s gone.”

“We need to knock him back out. He’s too unstable.” He recognizes Sam’s voice coming from somewhere in the room.

She’s gone.

He moves to get off the metal medical table, but Bucky’s on him in a second, his metal harm holing him down to the table.

His eyes are wide, his breathing iritic and heavy. The pain in his chest is excruciating. Bucky’s eyes are fixated on him, his jaw set and his nerve unyielding.

“Where the hell’s that needle?” Bucky yells.

“She’s gone,” he growls, fighting against Bucky with everything he has.

He feels a light prick on his arm before everything starts to get blurry again. Maybe it’ll take him back to her. Maybe he’ll finally be able to rest.

“We’ll take care of ya, kid. Don’t worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do always hate it when an author promises eventual smut and doesn't deliver, so here's a bit. Not long or graphic, but enough to make me pleased enough ;)


	3. Puppy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve really wants to get a puppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick little Drabble that I just cranked out on my phone, so apologies if there are any odd grammatical errors or misspellings. I blame autocorrect :)

Peggy knew something was amiss even before she had touched the front door knob. A gut feeling that something was off as she approached the facade of their house, gradually seeped down her spine, putting her on edge. It had been a long day, and maybe she was just being paranoid—

As Peggy turned the key in the lock, there was a loud crash and a heavy thud from inside the house. On reflex, she withdrew her pocket pistol from her purse, whipping it ahead of her as she rushed the front room.

"Steve?" She called out, moving delicately through the front hall into the sitting room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A place for everything and everything in its place, just as she had left it. But her years of training as a special agent were not fooled. Her eyes locked on the rug beneath the sofa— pulled out from its normal position and smeared with a bit of mud.

A struggle.

"Steve?" Peggy repeated, her jaw tensing as she continued to sweep the house. There was no response and she heard no other sound other than the blood pounding in her ears.

As she moved into the master bedroom, she caught what sounded like muffled scuffling coming from the closed bathroom door. Silently, she moved to face it, squaring her shoulders to the door frame, her gun pointed squarely in the middle.

"Come out now with your hands in the air," her voice was dark and commanding, daring whomever was behind the door to test her. "Or I swear to Christ, I will shoot you through the bloody door."

"Crimeny, Peggy! You call me dramatic!" Steve's voice was muffled through the wood, and while it was apparent that he was meaning to be humorous, he also sounded strained.

"Steve? What in God's name are you doing?" Her pistol dropped to the bedside table as she moved across the bed to yank open the door. Locked. She jiggled the handle. No use. "Steve, what the hell is this? Unlock the door."

"I can't. Not yet."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you can't come in here yet."

"Honestly, Steve," Peggy was quickly losing her patience. "I told you not to eat all that spicy food. Just because you can now doesn't mean—"

"God, Peg, it not that!" She could hear the eye roll in Steve's voice.

"Well then, wha—"

But Peggy was cut off by the sound of a small, piecing yip of a bark, followed by the sound of Steve emphatically trying to sush it.

"Oh you cannot actually be serious."

When they had fist gotten the house two months ago, they had both agreed to take the next steps slowly. They had discussed getting a pet, and while Steve desperately wanted a dog (any dog) Peggy was flat out against it. She was certainly more of a cat person and besides, neither one of them was home often enough to properly care and train a dog. That of course had won her argument and that had been that. Of she had figured that was the end of it anyway...

There was a click as Steve unlocked the door, but he made no move to actually open it. Gritting her teeth, Peggy yanked open the door. With the sight she was greeted with, she wasn't sure whether she could laugh out right, or scream.

There was Steve, standing in nothing more than a pair of swim trunks, his hair wet and matted down in several places, with what appeared to be a rambunctious yellow puppy (sopping wet) squirming in his arms. There was water everywhere and mud caked across the inside of the bathtub.

"We talked about this."

"Now you've really done it," Steve scolded at the puppy.

"We agreed that we could not take care of a dog right now, let alone a puppy."

"Would you believe he just followed me home?"

"Not in a million years."  
  
The puppy turned in Steve's arms and the second his eyes made contact with Peggy's, he began to struggle in earnest to free himself from Steve's grasp. The wet fur seemed to help, as before Peggy or Steve even knew what was happening, the puppy had slipped from Steve and came bounding haphazardly at Peggy, catching her off guard. Her heel caught on the carpet, sending her ground. The puppy was on her in a second, wiggling and licking every part of her face he could find. She struggled to push him away until Steve picked him up from behind, pulling him off Peggy. The puppy barked with excitement, kicking his legs and wagging his tail so hard that for a second, Peggy was worried he was going break it off.

"He likes you," Steve looked down at her, a broad grin plastered across his face.

"Fabulous. He's not staying."

"I've already named him, Bucky."

Looking up at Steve and the puppy, Peggy realized instantly that she had lost this fight and it would be better off to surrender now than to continue on with the battle.

With a sigh, Steve offered his free hand, pulling her off the plush carpet.

Peggy glared at the puppy for a moment before turning her full attention and irritation to Steve.  
"He sleeps in his own bed outside our room." With that, Peggy spun on her heel, very matter of factly, pushing her now throughly mussed hair out of her face in something of a huff.

"See buddy, I told you she's come around," Steve grinned as the puppy yipped sharply, seemly in agreement.


	4. His City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely useless drabble of modern Steggy playing hookie.

The whole thing had been Steve's idea; playing hookie from their respective responsibilities to take the day for themselves. And while secondary-school-Peggy would have been on board in a heartbeat, the practical side of herself that she had raised and cultivated over the course of several decades had not been one to go out without a fight. Still, between her weariness with work and Steve's puppy dog gaze, she eventually gave in, with Steve being the one to call the office and make their excuses (something to do with some bad tacos, fooling no one, she was sure).

And so their day had begun.

While they picked up sandwiches at the best deli in the City, Steve had made the realization that he'd yet to give Peggy a proper tour of his old stomping grounds.

They started in Brooklyn, where some of the buildings that he and Bucky grew up in were still occupied, though no longer by the same types of people as before. There was a fair amount of gentrification that seemed to put Steve off, but Peggy simply reminded him that at least it kept the neighborhood alive. How could he argue?

The building that Steve and the Barnes' had lived in was now a shell, having gone up in flames sometime in the 1970s. But the ice cream shop around the corner (boasting proudly its "est. 1926" on its sign) was still in business. The same shop, Steve informed Peggy, that he had taken his first date to. Her name was Martha and she had been a friend of the girl that Bucky had been going with at the time. He'd been thirteen, and he had been so nervous that he accidentally dropped his chocolate ice cream down the front of her dress.

Peggy laughed at that.

Peggy and Steve received their cones for free, the woman behind the counter (a former school chum of Rebecca Barnes) recognizing Steve. She insisted that Steve even remembering the place "after all these years" was payment enough, not leaving one inch or argument. And Peggy did have to concede that the ice cream was probably the best she'd ever had.

The tour took them to an arcade, new, but it reminded Steve of the ones he used to tag along to with Bucky. He insisted on playing the games, exchanging a handful of bills for several rolls of quarters. What started as innocent fun, quickly deteriorated into childish contest to see who could win the biggest stuffed animal before they ran out of coins. It ended with Peggy breaking the Strong Man game, winning the giant stuffed giraffe by default.

Peggy then dragged them into the nearest photobooth, the giraffe taking up at least half of the frame as Peggy grinned smugly from ear to ear wile Steve made a show of pouting. He finally cracked when Peggy snuck a kiss in for the final flash.

"I love you, you know," Peggy's voice low against his lips. Steve grinned.


	5. Fix You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the notes at the bottom :)

“I’ve seen her.”

The words sink into Steve’s skin. Everything is hot, too hot; his throat feels tight and dry. “How?”

“The Eye.”

“So what does that mean?” Steve is barely able to remember how to breathe.

“Would you like to see her?”

Steve’s jaw tightens. _Would he like to see her_?

“Yes.”

The answer escapes his lips before he even has time to think. Strange nods once, pulling the amulet from under his t-shirt. Steve hears him mummer something unknown to the Eye before a jet of orange light is expelled. The light shifts to form something of a window beyond which the two men can see the fabric of time and space, every universe, every possible future laid out into infinity.

Steve opens his mouth to speak but the words become lodged in his throat when an image of Camp Lehigh immerges just beyond the window. He sees himself, small and straight, standing in formation with the other men, his helmet almost too big for his head. He thinks he looks absurd and he suddenly realizes why everyone wrote him off. Everyone except _her_.

And there she is, tall, strong, poised, absolutely stunning. Her hair and lipstick are perfect, her uniform hugging her in just the right places. She is a vision and she still takes his breath away, just as she did then.

Steve can do nothing but stare. He has heard of Strange’s abilities—Bruce and Tony spoke of nothing else for weeks after they found him. In fact, Strange’s power was the only reason Steve had agreed to come back to the Avengers facility in the first place. And while Steve had been able to suspend a vast majority of his skepticism since he was pulled out of the ice, there was a small part of him that remained leery of the good doctor and his “magic”. He had been told of Strange’s capacity to manipulate space and time itself, and if Steve was honest with himself, that shadow of doubt sitting within him was fueled by the tiny hope that Strange would be able to bring her back to him; give them a second chance. That hope was much too dangerous for him to allow to cultivate, so he suppressed it as much as he could with skepticism of Strange.

That apprehension dies as he continues to watch her, fixated on her face as Strange moves them through time. _Her time_.

It is a perspective that Steve has never had before.

He watches her biting her lip and fighting a smile while he sits in the back of the Jeep on their way back to camp; he watches her move towards him and the dummy grenade; the look of pain on her face when he begins to scream in the pod that turned him into Captain America; her watching his USO show from the wings, perched on crates and hidden in the shadows; her nervously smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles of her red dress before a deep breath, entering the pub where Steve and the Commandos are residing with a steely determination; her fighting back tears as she speaks to him over the radio, trying desperately for him to give her his coordinates.

“Peg,” he whispers. His voice is shaky, tears welling up behind his eyes and the back of his throat. He wishes he could reach out to her, hold her, whisper to her that he still loves her, that she is his world.

“Could she hear us?” Steve asks, “If I were to call out?” He sounds small, broken.

Strange shakes his head. “I cannot change this timeline. It is composed of everything that has already been. Have you ever seen _Back to the Future_?”

“It’s on The List,” he sniffs, stepping closer to the window—to her. Strange continues on.

She is curled into a ball on her bunk, her hand clutching the set of dog tags he had given her the week before he went into the ice, her body wracked with grief; she is drinking—a lot, and Steve watches her wandering into dive bars and picking fights with men twice her size; Dugan visits her, Steve’s trunk in tow, depositing it at the foot of her bed as he helps her (quite hungover) dress her cracked knuckles and split lip; she argues with Phillips when he hands her her discharge from the RAF; her jaw is tight and her eyes are glassy as she opens his trunk, pulling out shirts, his Bible, his sketchbooks—she throws his pencil set at the wall in a fit of emotion, kicking his trunk before sinking to the floor against the bed and crying.

By now, tears are flowing freely down Steve’s cheeks. He can taste the salt water on his lips. He needs to stop this. She would never want Steve to see her like this. He gets the ugly feeling that he is invading her privacy. But he also finds that he cannot stop, his body suddenly too heavy for him to move, his mouth unable to form the words to end this. His chest is tightening with guilt and anguish. He did this.

She gets coffee for the men she works with at the SSR and Steve feels the tendrils of anger creeping themselves up as he watches her frustration at being undervalued; he watches her going rogue for Howard, slipping undercover to save their friend; she is in a diner, drinking peach schnapps and laughing with the waitress (he adores seeing her smile light up her eyes again); she is at dinner in an obnoxiously extravagant house (he presumes belongs to Howard) and she is laughing and happy and now Steve finds that he is crying because he missed all of this; she is standing in front of an apartment building, her arms around a man who looks vaguely familiar, kissing him goodnight; she is on an assignment with that same man, saving his life, his arm around her shoulder as she helps him limp to safety, the man cracking some witty remark when the whole thing is said and done and she laughs and kisses him (it makes Steve’s stomach turn with jealousy); she kisses the man and calls him darling, stroking his face as he slips a ring on her finger.

In an instant, Steve remembers that the man was her husband. He has seen him before in the family photos perched next to her hospital bed, though he was older. He wracks his brain for the man’s name, but comes up with nothing. Perhaps she never told him?

She and the man are at Christmas parties, charity functions, family get-togethers. They are laughing, fighting, crying, loving, and Steve feels as though his blood is on fire. His skin is too hot, too tight. He clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to regain some sort of control as tears burn their trail freely down to his chin.

Stop this. Stop this. Stop this.

“No,” he manages to croak out. His brain is on overdrive, trying to process the guilt, the shame of leaving his best girl alone; the jealousy of allowing another man to have the life he should have had. It should have been his ring on her finger, his arms around her as they slow dance, his gun at her six.

Steve sinks to his knees as the images continue to flash—birthday parties, reunions, funerals of various Commandos, her retirement from SHEILD, all of it a reminder of how full her life had been without him.

“Stop,” Steve’s voice is thick with emotion as he watches, fixated on her movements as she packs up her desk.

She gently wraps the handful of frames on her desk in newspaper before placing them at the top of the pile in the box. She pauses with the last frame, running her thumb gingerly over the glass and murmuring “darling”, her gaze softening. The moment is broken by a knock at the door. She leaves the frame on the desk where Steve can get a better look at it. He releases the breath he is unware he is holding when he sees that the picture in the frame is one of himself; from his days at Camp Lehigh, all skin and bone, squinting into the sun, those dog tags he had given her hanging from his neck. He thinks it is a terrible picture, having been taken for his medical file, but she had kept it all the same. His best girl had kept him with her all these years.

Steve simply cannot take anymore.

With a groan, he turns away. “That’s enough.”

Finally, Strange closes the portal. “I’m sorry, Steve.” His voice is low and sympathetic. Steve is certain that Strange has done the same thing with the lives of the people from his own past. “I know how it hurts.”

Steve cannot find the courage or the will to even look at Strange, let alone pull himself up off the floor. Suddenly, through the grief, a thought occurs to him.

“Can you bring her back?”

“No.” The response is that of a man who has spent his entire life telling people in the same state that there is nothing he can do for their loved ones. They must say their goodbyes and move on.

“I will not accept that,” Steve hardens, his icy gaze finally meeting Strange’s cold black eyes. “I cannot accept that.”

“You must.”

Something inside Steve breaks then. He has Strange by the throat in an instant. “I could crush your wind pipe in half a second and bring her here myself. Tell me why I shouldn’t?”

“You could,” Strange’s voice is distorted by the hand around his neck, but he is generally unfazed by Steve’s sudden dark rage, “But if I take her out of her time, the entire universe as we know it would be completely gone. There is nothing to prevent you from dying with it, along with all of your other friends. I cannot risk such a catastrophe for the life of a single person, not even yours, let alone Margarete Carter’s. This is the best I can offer you and killing me is not the man you are.”

Steve grimaces at Strange, knowing him to be right. Reluctantly he lets go, Strange coughing as air rushes back into his lungs. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, Steve turns away, leaving Strange kneeling on the floor, the amulet still dangling from his neck.

“You’ve passed the test, Steven Rogers. Congratulations,” he breathes, the corners of his mouth giving into the hint of a smile.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this struck me with the release of the new "Dr. Strange" trailer at Comic Con this weekend, and I rather liked it. 
> 
> I like the idea of Strange being able to see Peggy's timeline and be able to show it to Steve. 
> 
> I also ran with the idea that the Time Stone is going to be Steve's "kryptonite" as it were. I think there is potential that Steve would become obsessed with controlling it in the same way that Tony became obsessed with trying to control the Space and Mind Stones. However, Steve ultimately rejects the darkness within him* and Strange realizes that Steve is worthy and ready for the battle ahead. 
> 
> *Also, on a side note, I read that in the comics, the gems are mentioned as able to corrupt those who posses them (similar to the Rings in LoTR), as they corrupt Tony to a certain degree, which is why Black Widow takes them to Asgard for safe keeping. I ran with that idea as well, which is why Steve lashes out.


	6. North Star

Night is the hardest for him.

Since he was pulled from the ice, he's had trouble sleeping; plagued by nightmares of ice and crushing metal, of dreams of holding Peggy against him as they sway—either way, he wakes with a sheen of sweat and a hollowness in his chest that is so consuming, he doubts it will ever leave him.

There is no longer safety for him at night. Once, when he was young, he found comfort in the blanket of night. He enjoyed the idea that in the darkness, he could be just Steve. No one could see how small he was. No one could judge him on how frail he appeared. No, he could be whomever he chose, be with whomever he chose, in that darkness.

But the safety he felt then, tucked away in his bed at the Barnes' house, listening to Bucky's steady snore, is now gone. Forced to be Captain America, the myth and legend, furring day, he finds that he no longer wants to even be Steve Rogers in the dead of night; when the quiet that once felt inviting now engulfs, pressing in on him from every possible angle, his sharp memory of his past life doing nothing but cutting him open, leaving him wounded and open to the darkness.

He leaves the city once, desperately hoping that the drive will calm him. And it does, for a moment. The cold wind rushing past his face, cooling his heated skin, pricking at his eyes, pulling at his hair. The city blurs past him in bright, golden streaks of light, merging together to give him the illusion that perhaps he really is a time traveler. Maybe this was how he can get back to when he felt real? But the lights disappear as he leaves them far behind, speeding through the winding country backroads. He has no idea where he is or where he's going and frankly, he doesn't care. He stops when when runs out of gas.

He pulls the bike off the road and leaves it, making his way over a beaten wooden fence and up a large hill. He sits at the top, absorbing the view. He can see the city out in the distance, barely a shimmer on the horizon. There are spots of light here and there, homes dotting the farm land. He can see for miles and miles. He can breathe here, taking in the chilly stillness of the autumn midnight.

Then he begins to eye the stars. Somehow he is surprised that they are exactly the same as before. He half expects the night sky to be completely changed and shifted, since everything else around him feels so different and disconnected. And yet, there they are, twinkling back at him.

_"I can find the North Star. I don't see why I should need much else." Peggy's low whisper cuts through the autumn air as she and Steve wait out the night. They, along with the rest of the Commandos, are scattered about the French countryside after being forced to abort a mission to infiltrate one of the Reich's strongholds._

_The pair are pressed together, Steve around Peggy, as he uses his body as a makeshift heater. And for as much as he is enjoying being this close to her, he gets the sneaking suspicion that it isn't much of a burden for her either. The way her fingers are delicately tracing the lines of his hands is a bit of a give away, he thinks._

_"But didn't you ever see shapes of things in clouds?" Steve is having a hard time balancing his incredulity at Peggy's dismissal of Astronomy, and how distracting she is when she's this close._

_"Of course I did. I just never could seem to see what Michael saw when he looked at the night sky." The mention of her late brother gives Steve pause. It is the first time she's mentioned him by name since she told Steve of his passing. He holds her just a fraction tighter._

_"Mind if I have a go?"_

_"Be my guest."_

_Steve stares out into the black blanket pricked with light. Surely he can find something a bit more interesting than the Big Dipper... He grins when he sees it._

_"Ok," he takes her hand in his, his palm pressing against the back of her hand, lifting their arms to the sky. "Point your finger at that big one there." Steve guides her finger tip._

_"See it?" Peggy nods her head._

_"Ok, that is Algol, the Daemon Star. That's the eye of Medusa. Now, follow that line of faint stars up to that really bright one. There," Steve guides Peggy's finger along the skyline. "That is Mirfak, the brightest star in the constellation and the heart of Perseus."_

_Steve pulls her hand, outlining Perseus' limbs and finally, his head._

_"Anything?" Peggy sighs, pulling their hands back into the warm fold of their arms._

_"I see the stars, I do, I just can't picture them looking like anything. It just looks like a bunch of dots. I'm sorry." Steve's chuckle is so low, that Peggy feels it work its way through her._

_"It's ok, I get it. Creative thinking isn't your strongest suit. Not to worry, that's why I'm here. To do all the creative work for—" Peggy's open hand connects solidly with the side of Steve's head. Not enough to hurt, but enough for him to get the point. That gets a full belly laugh, stifled by his mouth pressed against the collar of her jacket as he fights to remain quiet. After several breathes to collect himself—_

_"It's fine, I still love you either way."_

_It takes him a moment, but he realizes Peggy's body has tensed under his arms. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he comprehends that he just told Margaret Carter he loves her, for the very first time. The quiet night suddenly feels charged, Steve's skin prickling with heated anticipation for her response._

_"You love me?" Peggy asks quietly. Neither one make a move, afraid that they'll fracture the moment._

_"Of course I do," Steve whispers back, scanning the portion of her face he can make out in the dim moonlight. And when he sees the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, it's as though a flood gate opens within him. Suddenly, all of the admiration and adoration that he had been containing neatly for the last year is flooding his body, having been granted the permission to flow freely. His skin grows impossibly hotter and he knows that he's flushed from his scalp to his toes, even if she cannot see it._

_"I've never loved anything or anyone as much as I love you, Peg," Steve presses against her neck, pushing the words through the layers of wool and imagining them spilling across her skin. Her fingers find themselves woven into his hair, stroking at the roots and holding him against her._

_"You know I love you too?" And her voice is so quiet that for moment, Steve thinks he may have misheard. "I love you too, Steve."_

He sits, chewing on his lower lip, eyeing Perseus with distain. It's not fair. It's not fair that Perseus was allowed a life with Peggy, no matter how distant or remote. He is envious of those stars for being allowed to even watch her live her glorious life, all the time knowing he was buried under 6 tons of ice, not dead, but certainly not living.

It's not fair that he can't even look at the stars any more without hating everything he missed, hating how the stars are exactly the same while life carried on without him. His life, the life he should have had, the life that was stolen from him.

Yes, he may find the modern world difficult to cope with, but at least that is a problem he knows he can solve. The struggles during the day will ease with time. No, it is the struggles that haunt him at night that worry him the most, because often times, he wonders if he will ever be able to forget. But what he hates the most is the fact that he doesn't want to.


	7. Dream A Little Dream of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “She would grab whatever she could -a look, a whisper, a moan - to salvage from perishing, to preserve. But time is most unforgiving of fire, and she couldn't, in the end, save it all .” -Khaled Hosseini

She is napping when she hears her door open and close softly. She may be losing her mind, but her hearing is just fine. She keeps her eyes closed, listening for movement, for breathing. Old habits die hard. There is a small sigh, barely a sound at all really, and it sends goosebumps up her spine. She has heard that sigh before. In the darkness behind her eye lids she chases the memory, trying to place the sound. Trying to remember why it sets her nerves on edge.

 

She nearly catches it. A memory of a smile. Around and around she goes, pulling in more each moment. Blue eyes with a hint of green, broad shoulders, a wave of blonde hair constantly falling across a pale forehead, and that perfect grin lighting up his face when she walks in...

 

Steve.

 

The memory slams into her, jolting her awake in the bed. And there he is at the door, hands in his pockets, ball cap pulled low. But she can still see his jaw line; the jaw line she loved to brush her lips against before he'd gotten a chance to shave.

 

They stare at each other for a moment before, "You're late, Captain."

 

He starts awkwardly, like he's trying to find the right thing to say. There are a fair number of "Well I"s and "um"s. He can't seem to look at her for longer than a second. His hand goes to the back of his neck to rub out the nerves, when he seems to realize he's still wearing the hat. He yanks it off his head in an instant, wringing it between his palms. "I don't even know where to start."

 

He look up at her, finally, and without the cap she can see how red-rimmed his eyes are, the dark circles under his eyes. "I'm sorry, Peg."

 

"It's quite alright, Steve," her tone is rather brisk. She's of course had this dream before. Steve walks through the door, young, and beautiful, and perfect, just as he was the last time she saw him. Usually he's in his uniform, though. And truth be told, this is the first time she's ever hallucinated him in modern clothing. She has to say, her imagination really is doing him justice. He looks tired however, which is also new.

 

"I came to—"

 

"I know why you're here.”

 

"Peg, I'm—"

 

“You're here to torment me in my old age, just as you have every night since I last saw you." His brow furrows and his lip pouts ever so slightly, just as it did then. “Really, Steve,” she sighs, losing some of her air. “Must you stand there like that? It’s so unfair.”

 

"What's unfair?" His brow gets even deeper.

 

"That even when my mind is turning into Swiss cheese, I still can't forget you. I mean, Christ, you’ve looked just the same my entire life…” She slips lightly, staring past him for a moment, remembering the light in his eye when she kissed him the first time. The way his bottom lip had slipped between her teeth as she had pulled away—

 

 

"Do you want to forget me?"

 

"What?" she snaps.

 

"Do you want to forget me?" He speaks carefully, each word rolling off his tongue with precision.

 

She stares at him for a long moment, watching his hand bend the brim of the ball cap. He doesn't look at her, just stares at his feet, waiting. She is struck by the memory of young Steve, at basic training. She had watched him try to flirt with one of the young nurses in the mess hall. She had rejected him in no uncertain terms. He had looked down at his tray, much like he was looking now. It had killed her to see him like that, even for a moment.

 

"Of course not," she speaks softly and evenly, aware, for the first time in what feels like such a long time, of every word as it rolls past her lips.

 

His gaze rises up to meet hers and she notices a slight glossiness to them.

 

"Do you think you're dreaming?" His brow seems to un-knit itself, easing back as he pushes the cap into his jacket pocket.

 

"Of course I am. You're dead. I buried you 70 years ago. You're my ghost."

 

He sighs, that soft, familiar sigh and begins to slowly make his way over to her bedside. "What would it take to convince you that I'm real?"

 

"I'm not sure..."

 

"What if I told you that I survived the crash?"

 

She does not respond. Merely follows him as he moves.

 

"What if I told you that I had been frozen in a block of ice for seventy years and they found me a month ago yesterday?"

 

Again, she merely watches him pull the arm chair in the corner up to her bedside as he takes his seat.

 

"What if I told you that the first thing I thought of when they defrosted me was our date?"

 

He takes a pause, allowing his implications to sink in.

 

"Then I’d ask why it’s taken you so long to see me?"

 

His brow knits again and his lips pull together with suppressed emotion. He takes a long moment, the agony apparent on his face.

 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve come to see you, Peg,” his voice very small as he fights for his composure.

  

She closes her eyes, trying to focus. Steve can't be here. He's dead. She buried him out at Arlington. Dugan had carried Steve's trunk to her apartment. Phillips had given her the folded triangle of a flag that had been draped across his coffin. She had cried hard for days, locking herself in her room, wrapping herself in one of his uniform shirts. She had whispered her goodbyes as she poured his blood into the river, mourning the children then should have had, the life they should have had. She had dreamt of him nearly every night, making her feel guilty when she'd wake up next to Daniel. She had missed him her entire life. She had put his memory into every moment of everyday, trying to live up to him.

 

Or maybe she hadn’t? How could she be sure of herself anymore? She could barely even remember her own children’s names. She had fleeting memories of Daniel. Of days spent warm in the sun. Daniel had held her as they stared out into the vast ocean, talking of nonsense plans for the future, after the war.

 

No. That couldn’t be right. After the war. After the war.

 

"Peggy," he whispers her name, just like he had on that beach in the south of France.

 

When she opens her eyes, he is closer. Not invading her space, but enough to see the bits of green and gold in his aching blue eyes. He is blurry in her vision and she realizes quickly that she is crying.

 

"I'm here, Peg. I'm real," he reaches out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. It is the last thing she wants.

 

His fingers wrap gently around hers, pulling her hand into his. He feels hotter than she remembers.

 

"You feel cold." His voice is laced with concern as a frown pulls at his features.

 

He cups her hand in both of his and brings them to his lips. He breathes on her fingers lightly; pressing his lips against them and feeling them radiate more heat. He kisses his way along her palm, pausing to lavish her wrist. She reaches up and strokes his jaw, his stubble scratching lightly against the softness of her aging finger tips. The light touch proves to be his undoing, as he presses her hand against his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut. His tears manage to work their way out, regardless.

 

"I'm so sorry," his voice is cracked and broken. "I am so fucking sorry. I wasn’t there. I’m sorry," he laces one hand with hers as he angrily wipes his eyes with the other.

 

"Hush," she soothes, running her free hand across his forehead, calming him even as her own tears are still fresh on her cheeks. "Hush now, my darling."

 

He leans into her; into her voice, into her touch. “I love you.”

 

She pulls away. She makes no explanation, only shuffling her now frail form as far along the bed as she can.

 

“Stay with me,” she whispers, her large brown eyes pleading. She aches for something solid to cling to. She needs Steve.

 

“I don’t think that’s—“

 

Margaret Carter had never begged for anything in her life, and she certainly wasn’’t about to start now. Not in formal terms anyway. But the, Please, she voices to him is something between desperate plea and demand.

 

And that seems to be all it takes. He is in her bed in a heartbeat. He is careful with her, overly aware of his own strength. It takes several adjustments, but she is finally curled safely against him.

 

She drapes her arm across his chest, reveling in the feel of a man again. He is still so perfectly solid, just as she remembers him. Something steady her mind and body can cling to.

 

“Don’t leave me,” the command just sort of slips out of its own accord. His fingers thread lightly through her white hair, reassuringly.

 

“I’m not ever going to leave you again.”

 

Her mind wanders, her skin tingling from his fingers, her body radiating from his warmth. Everything she should have had with him; their life together. They should have had children. They should have been like this on early Sunday mornings, their breathing fast and heavy after their morning sex. They should have had screaming matches about how reckless the other had been during their mission. They should have shared secret touches and knowing looks at their obligatory State Dinners. He should have held her together when she broke to pieces when her mother died. He should have been by her side when she had to bury every last one of their friends.

 

She thinks that she had those things with Daniel, but the whole thing is like a blank page. A frustrated sadness wells up within her. She is stuck with her false life with Steve, her imagined narrative that probably has some basis in fact, but she can’t even remember any real moments with Daniel.

 

“Hey, hey,” his fingers and voice a balm over her deteriorating mind. She realizes she’s crying again. “What’s wrong?”

 

She considers not telling him. Her old habit of not letting anyone in rearing its head for, what very well may be the final round. But what good will it do?

 

“I’m scared, Steve,” and she realizes how young she sounds. Not like a 90-year-old woman, but something closer to a child. She cannot look at him, choosing to hide her face in his chest. He smells of soap. Military issue soap.

 

She is stupidly ashamed of how week she has become. She is ashamed at him seeing her like this. She is ashamed at how badly she needs him with her. She hates everything that has led her to this moment, and yet she is ridiculously grateful that she gets to hold him again; that she can allow him to hold her in return.

 

“I’m not going to leave you,” his grip tightens on her slightly, though his fingers continue to run across her hair and neck. “I promise.”

 

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” She watches his jaw tighten, though he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that she’s right.

 

They stay like that for a while. He strokes her calmly, gently. She thinks it’s sort of how one might pet a dog they’ve taken to be put down. She never had any dogs. No. She did once. When she was a girl. She played with it out in the garden…

 

 

 

 

 

“Mrs. Carter,” an unknown voice bubbles up from the blackness. “Mrs. Carter, it’s time for your dinner.”

 

There is a lack of solidness to her. Everything is too soft. The blankets, the bed, her mind. There is something missing, but she cannot remember.

 

Slowly she opens her eyes, taking note of the nurse at the door. Tanned skin and dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she is holding the tray of food, scientifically broken down and specialized to fit.

 

“Just leave it on the table there. I’ll get to it,” she mumbles, attempting to stretch her stiff frame. The feeling of her dream washes over her. It’s almost as if she hadn’t dreamt at all, except she still feels the relief seeping into her. She does not feel relief very often these days.

 

The nurse argues for a moment, insisting on helping her feed herself.

 

“I’m perfectly capable of putting a spoon to my mouth. I’m not dead yet, thank you.”

 

The nurse purses her lips, but leaves the tray next to the bed, regardless. She will either eat it, or she won’t. She ponders for several minutes, but finally decides that she really doesn’t want to starve to death, so she should probably eat the mash. She misses real food. Hearty food. Meat pies and Sunday Roast.

 

She rolls to her side to heave herself into a sitting position. Her nose grazes the cotton of her pillow and it hits her like a freight train.

 

Soap. Military issue.

 

Steve.


End file.
